


Lokasenna

by PrincessAutumnArcher



Series: Lokasenna [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Avenger Loki (Marvel), Avenger Reader (Marvel), Belligerent Sexual Tension, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gender-neutral Reader, Loki (Marvel) Lives, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Sexual Content, Mild Smut, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Other, POV Second Person, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Reader-Insert, Sparring as foreplay, Trickster Loki (Marvel), no y/n, that movie hurt me and therefore I do not respect it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-12 16:23:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19135732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessAutumnArcher/pseuds/PrincessAutumnArcher
Summary: Sometimes, a god needs to be fought. Other times, he needs to be worshipped.





	1. The Flyting

It began with a violent slam of metal on metal.

You turned your attention from the mounted punching bag you had previously been focusing on to the doors, whose unmarred frames stood testament to Tony’s ability to procure impossible materials as the springs above urged them into closing with only a whisper. Their disturber, a seething mass of roiling black and pulsating anger, stalked towards the sparring mats, eyes focused ahead intently but without a target.

You were surprised that the doorframe didn’t buckle under the sheer intensity of the god’s glare. Natasha and Bucky paused in their match, glancing over and back at each other as if questioning what the other would do.

You were already moving towards the weapons racks, eyes trained on a pair of silver daggers—old-fashioned and a tad more ornamental than practical, yes, but this wasn’t the first time you’d entered the game, and by now you knew what you liked. Loki was but five paces from the mats, darkened malachite glare still locked on nothing, when you caught Bucky’s eyes—Natasha was quick and mistrusting enough to leap away, but Bucky remained loyal to a fault, and he clung to that as part of reconditioning—and nodded sharply, gesturing with a jut of your chin to _move, Barnes, now_ , before you sent the dagger flying towards Loki’s skull with a flick of your wrist.

Sometimes, your god needed a fight. A sacrifice, to speak in ritualistic terms.

Even before he caught the dagger, the _thwack_ of the hilt stinging heavy against his palm, you started running, a small grin flickering over the corner of your mouth despite yourself. He wouldn’t _kill_ you, but this game had the potential to earn you some very painful marks—satisfyingly so, perhaps, but painful for weeks to come all the same. He let you get closer than you thought he would before the sharp, electric scent of smoke and ice filled your half-open mouth, his seiðr flashing green as long, inhumanly elegant fingers closed around dagger hilts, green leather replacing black wool.

A hint of pride suffused you at the thought that he felt the want for armor rather than simple cloth against you.

You anticipated the first strike—a long, sweeping blow that would have severed your left arm—and leaned around to catch his open side. His arm swung down and you adjusted your trajectory, angling for the junction between throat and jaw. His body careened smoothly back towards you, left blade arcing to the base of your throat; you threw your torso back to avoid the gleaming silver and pivoted your wrist with all the force you could, trying to catch the tendons of his throat with your blade.

With a snarl, Loki lunged away and the wrist closest to yours snapped down, forcing your hand down before his fingers spun the dagger down and you found your extended arm locked in place between his forearm and blade, the point of your own weapon quivering as you strained against him.

A cruel grin bared the teeth on one side of Loki’s face, his nostrils flaring almost imperceptibly. Your only warning before his free arm slashed back towards your exposed ribs was a tiny twist at the corner of his mouth. The quirk disappeared as you hefted your other arm and pinned Loki’s forearm to your chest with your own, leaving the two of you trapped in each other’s limbs.

You were disappointed to note that Loki’s breathing was barely harder than usual, while your own had already begun to grow heavy. You’d have to give him more of a challenge if you wanted to win this one.

His eyes narrowed as your gaze flickered to the hand trapping you; suddenly, your foot collided with his chest as you released his arm, sending him staggering backwards. Before he could regain his balance, you leapt forward, crooking your elbow to catch his neck and swing around, taking advantage of his uneven weight distribution to buckle his knees and hook your legs around his shoulders.

You had learned this particular brand of fighting from Natasha and added a few modifications to the style under Brunnhilde’s critical eye after hearing the story of her fight with Loki on Sakaar, which was why you hoped it would be more effective than your usual hand-to-hand preference. Another, quickly silenced part of you murmured that Loki’s head between your thighs wasn’t necessarily an undesirable means to reach the end of the game.

A grunt escaped his lips as you locked your ankles behind his back and jerked his shoulders back, mindful of the blued hilts each fist still wielded. You were almost surprised to find the handle of your own weapon still clutched in one hand, slick with sweat but _there_ , and the temptation to whoop in quasi-victory nearly flooded you.

Instead, you leant forward, gripping Loki’s hair with one hand to bare his neck as you traced down the plane of his jaw with the blade. The slight rumbling growl that rose from his throat and sent muffled vibrations through the hilt’s carved snake as your blade followed the sharply delineated line of his bone felt good under your hand.

Too good, apparently, since you failed to notice the sudden, prickling scent of seiðr until a blast of green crackled between your fingers and you recoiled from the weapon, reeling back and biting back a shriek at the feeling of writhing scales beneath your fingertips. A silver snake slithered rapidly to the edge of the mat before returning to its inanimate form with another burst of viridian light. Cursed ornamentation. You would have to remember that for next time.

His head turned, the high bridge of his nose gliding along your inner thigh, and you were suddenly hyper-aware of the solid heat of his torso under you. Loki’s laugh felt like frost splaying down your spine, tempered only by the molten flash of mortification that followed.

You took some satisfaction in the crack of your elbow against Loki’s skull before wide, long-fingered hands seized your waist and ripped you from his shoulders. Your back slammed onto the mat and for a moment the spinning light in your eyes concerned you, but a sharp inhale allowed the residual taste of seiðr in the air to awaken your senses enough to roll away just before Loki’s hand could clamp down on your throat.

“Save that for bed,” you called, half a laugh tangled in your words. He dodged your next kick, but you managed to land a hard blow to his ribs, earning you a harsh exhalation and a few seconds of burning green eyes, half-lidded in momentary pain.

“You’ve been talking to the Valkyrie.”

The growl didn’t come out as a question, and for a moment you lingered on the fact that he didn’t address your earlier comment. Then his knee connected with your stomach, driving your breath out, and as you lashed out with a foot, it dawned upon you that his hand was dangerously close to your target.

The smirk on his face as he caught your ankle in a grip just tight enough to be painful told you that he knew you had noticed. Loki’s face blurred as he yanked you down and towards him; his weight landed solidly over your torso the next second, hips cocked to allow one leg to pin your thigh down and keep you there. His face was most definitely not blurry any longer; the satisfaction laid so clearly over his features was as irritating as the fact that his breathing was labored was gratifying.

The anger that flashed over his face when you pointed it out was twice as much so. You bucked your hips up under him despite the twang of pain it sent into the joint pinned beneath him, relishing the second of shock that passed over his features and taking the opportunity to dive after the dagger in his right hand as that shock melded into amusement, tinged by the furiousness that always rises in the blood with a battle.

You liked to think of it as your presence in his veins, driving him to satiation.

You managed to grab his wrist, surprisingly, but before you could twist the hilt out from his grip, Loki’s fingers tangled in your hair and you let out a cry as he yanked you back down to the mat, his right hand pivoting until your grip faltered. In just a few seconds the blade pressed at your throat, cool and dangerously still at the soft skin beneath your chin. You couldn’t quite decide which was more likely to end you first: the blade keeping your head against the ground or the level, equally cold gaze Loki had pinned you with. Both sent rushes of adrenaline to your thumping heart, although you were fairly sure each for different reasons.

From the pricks of pain in your scalp, however, his fingers were still twisted in your roots and therefore there was an unwielded Asgardian dagger somewhere to your right. There was still a chance to win this round.

His eyes bored into you, burning stars of seaglass over a tempest, and you realized that you’d never seen him blink. The blade twisted up, scraping sweetly against your skin and you took in a shuddering breath as Loki smiled fondly, tightly down at you. It was the smile of a predator about to feast, and never in your life had you been so tempted to drive the blade in and roll your hips up again, just to disturb the placid, assured razor of his expression.

The edge of the dagger’s asymmetrical blade came free from your jaw and before it could complete a circuit to meet your pulsing throat again, you lurched to the side, ripping free of Loki’s grip and scrabbling for the hint of iridescent blued metal that had glinted in your peripheral just seconds before.

Your fingers closed around the unfamiliar hilt, an icy tingle numbing your skin— _seiðr, his seiðr, Lokaseiðr_ —even as Loki’s closed around your throat, thumb pressing under your jawbone hard enough to hurt the tiniest bit. He had been careful—almost gentle, although you supposed that term was very, _very_ relative—ever since what Thanos did on that ship, and a tear nearly welled in your eye for it.

The point of his dagger pierced your side, all sensation narrowing to a single point of glowing agony, as you swung wildly with its twin; the hot gush of liquid that met your hand as the blade sank through leather and into flesh wrenched a horrified, gasping scream from your lips.

This was not how the game was meant to end.

Loki laughed as blood spurted from his side, the rich, crackling peal of the sound so undeniably wrong while your hands drowned in the thick crimson spilling from him. The cloying scent of iron filled your nostrils as you shoved at the skin and flesh around the dagger impaled in his stomach, trying desperately to stop the sticky flood of red.

“No, no, no, Lo—”

His hand squeezed once and left your throat, brushing almost timidly over the skin before coming up to cradle your cheek. “Shh…I’ve been angry. Angered gods act rashly.” His voice was too smooth. You felt sick. Tears choked you in the absence of his hand and you fought to sit up before a firm hand pressed you back down.

Your world lit up, blinding you with white light until a vignette of green came to chase away the afterimages. The smell of crushed ice and smoke— _Lokaseiðr_ —stung your nose and the first thing you noticed was the soft fade of warmth at your ribs and beneath the hand you had stabbed Loki with. The second was the distinct lack of blood, and the third, somehow, was the presence of Loki’s thigh firmly between your legs, applying a dangerous amount of pressure while he nuzzled along the curve of your jaw and throat. His skin was impossibly cool. Your mind felt lost in a fog; someone far away whimpered faintly, and it took you a moment to recognize the voice as your own.

“You told me to save it for bed,” he whispered, his cool breath raising goosebumps on your skin, and a second wave of his seiðr flooded you before you could even think to protest for Natasha and Bucky’s sake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos make my day, comments earn my undying fidelity and gratitude. Hope you enjoyed, and I'll see you in the next chapter!


	2. The Blót

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a sacrifice comes a ritual.

Loki’s daggers were gone when the world returned in a dizzying spiral around you, as was his armor, leaving him in the casual Asgardian garb he preferred when he was within his chambers. You weren’t entirely surprised to find yourself draped similarly, gossamer-soft fabric trailing over your arms in delicate waves. Neither were you particularly taken aback at the startling green and gold he had chosen to garb you in, but the absence of surprise didn’t stop your heart from quivering at the ravenous glint of approval in Loki’s eyes as he raked you up and down.

As soon as your fingers had fisted in the deep green of his tunic and you found solid ground beneath your feet, you drove Loki to the edge of his bed, a fire blazing fiercely in your eyes.

“Stand here.” Your voice was hard, and you could feel the bemusement in his eyes well before you raised your gaze to meet his. A smirk you liked to think was similar to his quirked your lips as you added slowly, “My lord.”

His eyes widened as you flattened your hands against his chest and stretched up to place your lips carefully at the corner of his slack mouth before trailing tiny, reverent kisses down his jaw and neck, spending extra time with your ministrations at the spots you had struck during the fight and letting your teeth prick a few new marks on his smooth skin. The column of his throat rumbled under your lips as he hummed in pleased satisfaction, the sound deepening into a growl at the nipping bites you peppered in on your way to his clavicle. Loki tipped his head down, attempting to catch your lips with his own, but you tilted away from the tempting promise of his kiss, scraping a quiet smile over the pale hollow of his throat. He contented himself with a soft exhalation and brushing your hair away from your face, pausing to stroke your cheek with a gentle thumb.

Your hands busied themselves with the laces keeping his trousers up, undoing their work unhurriedly. His hands twitched as you grazed his skin with a nail, but he allowed you to continue, those long-fingered hands curling into themselves against his thighs. The cloth rustled softly as it fell in a pool to the floor and you smiled broadly against his pulse, eyes shutting as you pressed another kiss to the skin. It could have been your imagination, but you thought you felt the beating of his blood flutter under your lips.

You knelt before him and gazed up as the black discs of his pupils expanded greedily over his irises. Seaglass over a tempest, indeed. Adoration—a reflection of your own—glistened over his eyes as you took him slowly into your mouth, and he exhaled sharply as if struck, his eyes closing slowly before fluttering open. The hiss of his breath stroked down your spine and you allowed a languid caress of your tongue to further convey your sentiments.

Loki _shuddered_ , and a thrill ran through you at the knowledge that you had such power over your god. Your blood sang as the god’s hips jerked and one splayed hand trembled over your hair, the tension in his fingers evident as he restrained himself from closing his hand into a fist over your scalp.

Sometimes, a god needed to be fought. Other times, he needed to be worshipped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Let me know what you thought in the comments, I love hearing from readers.  
> Interested in more Towerverse/post-Ragnarok/Endgame Loki? Sakaar Loki? (If it's Thor-Era Loki you're craving, check out my other story, "On the Wind"! ;) It's got the slowest of burns and all the flirty innuendo, ahaha.)


	3. The Uninvited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> haHA just kidding, the drabble followup as to how Natasha and Bucky are taking Loki's little interruption is here instead.

Ice clinked in Bucky’s glass as he set it back down on the countertop. “So…” He pulled the vowel out into a tapered sigh, mild but curious. Blue eyes darted to Natasha’s calm profile on his left as she sipped and stared into the tiled wall. “Are we gonna talk about that, or—”  
“No.”   
Her reply was uninflected, and Bucky couldn’t tell if the something lurking under her voice was muted laughter or frustration.   
“…Okay.”  
A smile curled up Natasha’s lip. “Guess who lives above me. Stark did a good job soundproofing this place, but—”  
“Alright, I thought we weren’t gonna talk about it!” Bucky tipped the rest of his drink into his mouth, wondering if he should have gone for something stronger than water. Natasha chuckled into her own glass, tapping a friendly fist on Bucky’s shoulder in concession. 

Steve entered the room, your workout bag slung over one shoulder. “Have either of you seen—what’s that look for?”  
Natasha’s scoff was hardly muffled by Steve’s indignance. Bucky didn’t stop eyeing your bag warily as he answered, “Don’t go looking. Trust me, Steve, and leave it where you found it. You might get stabbed otherwise—and not in the fun way.”  
Natasha’s burst of laughter at that lasted through Steve’s confusion and Bucky’s wildly gesticulated explanation.


End file.
